


Realization

by scrub456



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, I've never written Johnlock before, It's squinty at best, John is a Saint, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Take it as you will, The Thing With The Peas, but it's for a gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7386658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/pseuds/scrub456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is kindof-almost-notreally shot while on a case. Sherlock does not respond well. John cooks while Sherlock broods.</p><p>And however you choose to interpret their relationship here, they are established in that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Realization

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Enlighten](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6859621) by [notjustmom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom). 



> For my writing partner, sounding board, and friend, notjustmom, who just passed 400 posted works here on the archive. She inspires me, encourages me, makes me want to try new things and always do better. 
> 
> I hope you like this, dear. It's not the crackyfluffiness (eh, you make up better words than I do) we talked about... but I've been working on this piece for a few days now.
> 
> **********
> 
> When you're done reading this story, go read [Scars](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7389577/chapters/16785604) by notjustmom. Chapter three, "a teachable moment" reveals a bit of fallout from this story. She's also written [Mollify](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7426708) which takes place two years later. Both are BRILLIANT.

The case was brutal, lasting for far too many days without sleep. Far too much bad coffee and far too little actual sustenance had been consumed. Nerves were frayed and tempers flared.

And then a gun was fired at John. Because foolhardy, courageous to a fault John had hurled himself between the suspect and Sherlock.

Sherlock came very near unhinged. There was blood. John's _neck_ was bleeding. Sherlock had begged John not to die and confessed that he needed him, right out in front of Lestrade and his whole team.

When the medics confirmed John's claim that the wound _'twas but a scratch,_ the bullet had barely grazed the right side of his neck, and no stitches were needed, Sherlock came undone a second time.

Humiliated by his admission of sentiment to the world (it was one thing to enumerate John's many fine qualities in the privacy of their own flat, but they'd both agreed that private things stayed private), and furious that John would so foolishly insinuate himself into a deadly situation, Sherlock launched into a venomous tirade.

He'd verbally decimated the suspect, which was fine by everyone in attendance. The ring leader of a human trafficking operation deserved the abuse, and worse, as far as they were concerned.

Then Sherlock felt it necessary to address the incompetence of the MET as a whole. A junior officer was left in tears, Anderson had to physically restrain Donovan, and Lestrade threatened to withdraw any future invitations to consult on cases.

Satisfied he'd made himself understood, Sherlock turned his vitriol on John, at which point John, with the aide of Lestrade, forced Sherlock into a cab.

Ordinarily John might have hurled insults right back, but he just didn't have it in him to do so. He was exhausted, and his shoulder ached from tackling the suspect. His neck and head were throbbing. His ears were pop-ring-buzzing with tinnitus from the gun being fired right next to him, and he was attempting to keep at bay the vertigo induced nausea (not that he'd had any lunch to lose).

So he sat and listened to Sherlock. It took a bit more focus than usual, but he made a valiant effort to hear what was being said. And John came to two conclusions.

One: Sherlock's insults weren't really so much insults (okay, the "inconsiderate bastard" thing stung a bit) as much as expressions of frustration at how the case had gone, anger at himself for having gotten them into a life-or-death situation _again,_ and genuine fear-tinged concern for John’s well-being. It was just his delivery that made everything sound so offensive.

Two: Hurling insults was how Sherlock had learned to deal with emotions he didn't fully understand. It was a defense mechanism. Tear down others, and in their weakness no one will notice his own.

It was absolutely insane that John found the realization that Sherlock masked his insecurities with insults endearing  ( _height? really? typing speed? you can't be serious_ ). And yet, he did. Because underneath the cold, cutting and calculated words, John recognized the heart. The heart that had been terrified, the heart that thought John had gotten himself killed. The heart that loved him.

"Sherlock?" Tentatively, John reached out for Sherlock's hand. "I need to say som..."

Flinching away, Sherlock glared at him. "What could you possibly say? Are you going to tell me to calm down? Try to make me see reason? Remind me how it made you feel when you thought I was dead? Because you don't have to. I already know..." His voice broke then and he turned away from John to stare out the cab window.

"Sherlock, no..."

"Baker Street, gents."

"Please, Sherlock, wait..."

But Sherlock was out of the cab and through the front door the moment the car stopped.

Heaving a great sigh, John grudgingly paid the driver and stumbled from the car. "Damn." He leaned against the front door to let the wave of dizziness pass. When he did make it inside, it took him twice as long to make his way up the stairs to the flat.

Sherlock was there, still in his coat and shoes, curled in a tight ball on the couch.

"Sherlock?" John hung up his coat, closed and locked the door to the flat, and leaned back against it. "Can we talk?"

With a huff Sherlock turned his back to the room and curled in on himself once more.

"All right. You need some more time. It's fine, Sherlock. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." John paused to consider his words, and settled on simple. "And I just want to say, I'm sorry. I am."

While still leaning against the door, John toed off his shoes. He slowly made his way to the kitchen. They both needed to eat. He didn't want to order in, he didn't think he could attempt the stairs again, and he knew Sherlock wouldn't. There wasn't much in the refrigerator, beyond the assortment of body parts stashed in the crisper.

He looked at Sherlock's mess of test tubes and petri dishes on the table and thought back to an evening when Sherlock had been patient with him as he worked through the emotions he wasn't sure how to deal with.

The thing with peas, then. Sherlock's favorite.

It was a slow process, more so than normal, making the risotto. With his aching neck, when John needed something, he had to turn his whole body and shuffle rather than just turn his head and stretch out his arm. And the whole turn-and-shuffle exercise only served to make him dizzy every time. But at least he didn't have to think too hard about what he was doing.

It wasn't until he was adding the other ingredients to the rice that he realized they had no mushrooms. He'd never made it without mushrooms before. Maybe he could substitute... Nope. Too much thought required. It'd be fine. It had to be.

John took his time cleaning up as the risotto finished cooking. He made tea and moved carefully to deliver a cup to the sitting room. Sherlock had kicked off his shoes, tossed his great coat and suit jacket to the floor, and was stretched out on his back with his eyes closed.

"Tea." John placed the mug on the coffee table and stood up slowly. "Dinner's almost ready. I made the thing with the peas, I hope you'll  have some..."

Sherlock opened one eye and was looking John up and down. "Do something about that, would you?" He waved his hand dismissively in John's direction. "It's putting me off."

"I'm... sorry?" John had no idea what Sherlock meant.

"There, on your neck and shirt, there's blood. Take care of that." Sherlock lay his head back down and closed both eyes.

"Uhm, okay Sherlock... Sorry." More slowly than before John returned to the kitchen. He wanted to give Sherlock the time and space he needed, show him he was cared for, make it easy for him. But John had honestly forgotten about the blood, and Sherlock's comments had seemed unnecessarily harsh, even for him.

_He's hurting, and trying to sort it all out. He just needs time._

John sighed as he stirred the risotto before he tasted it. It was definitely done, and he thought it actually tasted even better without the mushrooms. But the one bite he took landed heavy on his stomach, and he didn't think that it had anything to do with the dizzy-sick he was feeling from the vertigo.

John dished up a bowl and began the wearisome trek back to the sitting room. This time, Sherlock was sitting upright and watching his every movement. John handed him the bowl and started to turn away.

"Aren't you going to..." Sherlock's voice was small. Insecure. "We always eat together after a case."

"I don't think I can right now, Sherlock. I'm just going to go have a nice long soak, and try to do something about..." John gingerly touched the bandage on his neck.

Sherlock groaned and hung his head. "John, I..."

"No, Sherlock. I owe you an apology... I do. Please, let me finish. We've talked about the fact that I am never going to stop trying to protect you. But I've also promised you that I would be more careful. And I broke that promise, didn't I? I wasn't careful earlier. I was stupid, and got hurt. What's worse, I hurt you..." John took a deep breath. "I never wanted you to know what it felt like when I thought you were dead. Not ever. But I did that to you tonight, didn't l? God, Sherlock. I'm so sorry."

"John, I..."

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm not angry with you. You need time to sort out the emotions, I understand, I really do. So you just eat, please, and I'll just be in the bath." John smiled wistfully then. "And because I know you want to know, my left shoulder hurts from tackling the suspect. Neck hurts for obvious reasons. Tinnitus in both ears, worse in the right, and a case of vertigo. The dizziness is making me feel nauseated. Add to all that the exhaustion, and my head is just pounding."

With that, John turned as quickly as he dared, and shuffled to the loo. He started the water running, undressed carefully, and examined his neck. He'd change the bandage out after his bath... There really was an awful lot of blood for such a small wound. Before he stepped into the tub, John took just a fraction of one of his old pain pills. He hated how the heavy medication made him feel, but paracetamol wasn't going to cut it.

The heat did wonders for his aches, and the more time passed the less his ears rang and popped. But the dizziness and headache were persistent.

It wasn't until John had very carefully climbed from the tub and started to dry himself off did he realize he hadn't brought any clean clothes in with him. And the first aid  kit with the gauze for his neck was in the kitchen. Damn. _Damn it._ If it wouldn't have made him even more miserable to do so, he might have cried. He resigned himself to a frustrated sigh and reached for his robe from the hook on the back of the door.

"John?" Sherlock's tone was tentative. He knocked softly. "John, I..."

John draped his robe around himself and let the door swing open to reveal Sherlock clutching a pair of John's pyjama bottoms and the first aid kit to his chest. Eyes that reminded John of a troubled sea focused on the cut on his neck (was it a cut? it was more a scratch, really... but could one actually say they'd been scratched by a bullet?).

"The mushrooms," Sherlock mumbled. "How did you know?"

Taken aback, John blinked in surprise. "Uhm... what?"

"Dinner. The thing with the peas..." Sherlock finally made eye contact. "It's my favorite of your recipes. But... Ihatemushrooms." He rushed the last bit.

"What? You hate them? But..."

"It's the texture I think. But you told me the story about your grandmother, and I didn’t have the heart to tell you. I know you would've left them out for me, but you had a sentimental attachment." 

"You should have said something. I..." John shrugged and regretted it immediately as the sudden movement made the room spin, and a fresh wave of nausea roiled in his gut. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and grabbed hold of the door in order to stay upright.

"John." Sherlock dropped what he was holding, and was on John in an instant. He wrapped one arm around John's waist, gingerly cradled the back of his head with his other hand, and slowly guided him back to sit down on the toilet. He traced the cut on John’s neck with feather light touch. "May I?"

John managed a weak "Mhmm" as he attempted to breathe through the nausea.

Sherlock cleaned and dressed the wound with care, working in silence. John understood they were both drawing comfort simply from being near one another. Sherlock was in front of him then, helping him into his pyjamas.

"Bed?"

"I think lying down will be worse. Maybe the couch."

Sherlock helped him stand, wrapped an arm around him, and remained a solid presence while the rest of the world tilted and spun as they made their way to the couch. "Sit. I'll be right back."

John tried to lean back against the cushions, but was overcome by dizziness each time. So he remained perched on the edge of his seat, doing everything to stay still. He was relieved that Sherlock had apparently worked through his emotions. They would be able to talk through it together then... as soon as the sitting room stopped spinning.

"I found some ginger tea. That should help the nausea. And I made toast. You haven’t eaten." Sherlock, dressed in his pyjamas, placed the mug and plate on the coffee table. He arranged a few cushions, and then sat on the couch with his back to the armrest. As gently as possible, he helped John turn and scoot so that his back was against Sherlock’s chest. "Okay?"

"Better, yes." John sighed.

Sherlock handed John the mug and wrapped his arms around his middle. "Sip this." John relaxed back into Sherlock.

"By the time that idiot ran, I already knew he was going to try something desperate." Sherlock kept his tone soft, though John could hear the tension in it. "When he pulled the gun, I had already come up with a dozen things I should have done differently. All those girls were taken, and one died, all because I didn't solve it soon enough..."

"Sherlock, no... You did everything you could do."

"But it wasn't enough, was it? That girl is still dead." Sherlock pulled John a little more closely to him. "And then you were there, and the gun went off... And I'd failed you too. I'd failed, and lost you because of it. Even after I knew you were okay, I couldn't stop those emotions... The terror, the cavernous loneliness, the deep hollow ache in my chest. And I was furious... at myself, at you, and nothing made any sense."

Sherlock placed a gentle kiss on the back of John's neck, then inhaled deeply. "I was so awful to you, even though I knew you needed me. You should have been taking care of yourself, but you took care of me instead. I don't deserve you, and I will never understand..." He rested his forehead on John’s shoulder.

"I hate mushrooms too."

"What?" Sherlock huffed a surprised laugh.

"I made that risotto the first time following my grandmother's exact recipe, because that's just how she always made it. You liked it so much, and never said anything, so I assumed you even liked the mushrooms. I left them in, for you. The only reason I left them out tonight was because we didn't have any."

"John, I don't... I don't understand."

"We will always make mistakes. There will always be the possibility that one of us will hurt the other, or that we'll fail each other. Because I failed you tonight too, Sherlock. I did. Though you really were a bit of an arse about it." John chuckled; he felt Sherlock smile against his shoulder. "But at the end of the day, we're here, together, working through it. And..." He turned in Sherlock's arms just enough to be able to look at him, then had to close his eyes and wait out the dizziness.

" _And,_ now I know, no matter what we face, that you, Sherlock Holmes, were willing to eat mushrooms for the rest of your life because you wanted me to be happy. A man doesn't suffer through eating a fungus for just anyone, he reserves that for someone who means something."

"Idiot." Sherlock laughed. He took the mug from John's hand and placed it on the table. He wrapped his arms around John once more, and held on tight. "You don't just mean _something_ to me. You're everything."

**Author's Note:**

> So, not only is this a gift for notjustmom, but it's been a bit cathartic. A few days ago was my parents' 37th wedding anniversary. Mom passed away six years ago, and there's a lot to it, but that day was an emotional one for me. To help work through it, I infused a bit of my parents, who I believe were true soulmates, into the boys. Here's a true story (and the inspiration for the mushroom thing)...
> 
> Mom was an excellent cook (I got a bit of that from her). Everything she made was amazing. But her chocolate chip cookies were always extra crisp. I complained about it once, because I like them soft, and she explained that she preferred them soft too, but that dad liked to dip them in his coffee so she made them crisp for him.
> 
> Okay, fine. That's really sweet, yeah?
> 
> The first Christmas after mom passed away I decided to have a go at the baking she always did. I asked dad if he had any requests, and assured him I'd be making chocolate chip cookies. And then... Dad asked me if I knew how to make the chocolate chip cookies soft. Dumbstruck, I asked him why. He explained that he preferred them soft, but since mom liked them crisp, he never complained.
> 
> 31 years they were married. It seems silly, I know. Why didn't one of them just say something? But to me it speaks volumes of their love.
> 
>  
> 
> ******  
> Also, just as a side note... I've had vertigo, in combination with a busted eardrum, and it really is that awful.


End file.
